


from now on, we are enemies

by ybcpatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Fighting, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Pre hiatus, Songfic, folie era, from now on we are enemies, heartbreaking honestly, just read it it hurts, uuuuh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 06:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12676260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ybcpatrick/pseuds/ybcpatrick
Summary: composer but never composed, singing the symphonies of the overdosed.





	from now on, we are enemies

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for a while. It hurts. Have fun.

The light of his laptop was harsh on his eyes, glaring in his glasses and forming a new ache behind his skull. Patrick didn't put it away, though, just stared. His mind was blank as he scrolled through pages of a magazine online, watching the stupid tabloid stories drift past his gaze as it turned swiftly to tunnel vision. It was then he realized he hadn't been reading a word; he'd only been staring at a spot in the unchanging white.

The bus rocked, jostling Patrick where he laid in his bunk. His beer threatened spillage where it was tucked in the crook of his arm, and he tensed, seizing the bottle. No sooner had he brought it up to his lips when he deemed it safe was his curtain ripped back. In one motion, Pete leant in, tearing the beer out of his hands, and tossed a notebook onto his chest. Patrick hummed angrily, and Pete left as soon as he came in.

"Why the fuck did you take my drink? It was only my first!" Patrick demanded, glaring in the direction Pete left in.

"Doesn't matter if it was your first or your twenty first, I don't feel like dealing with that shit tonight!" Pete shouted back, venom lacing his words. "Just read the lyrics!"

"Could've just asked, you dick," Patrick growled to himself, closing his laptop and shoving it off his stomach. He nudged the switch to his bunk light with his foot, picking the notebook up in a haste. Disinterested, he scanned over the words, not quite registering any. At least, until one word, clear as day despite Pete's chicken-scratch handwriting, seemed to punch him in the gut.

 _Overdosed_.

Eyes blowing wide, Patrick reread every line on each of the pages, feeling his chest constrict along each word. He knew they were in a bad place right now, with how Folie ended up and the impending hiatus threatening to choke them all off, but fuck--

Those weren't lyrics for the next album. It was a fucking _swan song_.

Sadness masked itself with anger, so that's just how Patrick reacted. Who the _fuck_ did Pete think he was to just throw this bullshit on his chest, after all that they'd already been through on this fucking tour? They were fighting like cats and dogs one minute and making out in closets the next, skirting around the hiatus talk, and Pete thought it would be perfectly fine to shove lyrics at Patrick about being a king, a lunatic, a god-- then throwing curveballs like saying "nobody will remember me" and mentioning _Best Buy_ \--

Patrick's eyes began to sting. He tore his way out of the bunks with the notebook crinkling in his fist.

Pete was hunched over at the counter, scribbling feverishly into another notebook with Patrick's now-empty beer bottle beside him. Patrick couldn't make out his expression, but he figured it wasn't anything good. Shaking slightly with rage, Patrick came to stand beside him, slamming the offending notebook down with an open palm. Pete didn't even flinch at how the smack rang loudly through the otherwise silent bus.

" _What the fuck is this shit?_ " Patrick seethed, vision red. Pete looked up at him, face cold and hollow. His eyes were dark as he stared up at Patrick through his greasy bangs, eyeliner from three days ago caked into the creases and making him look far older than he was. Patrick found his gaze softening as he stared, but shook his head, welcoming the storm clouds back in.

"What's _what_?" Pete drawled, voice monotonous. Patrick sputtered, eyes widening in shock as he swiped up the notebook again.

"What's wha-- 'a composer but never composed, singing the symphonies of the overdosed, singing I only want what I cannot have'?" Patrick asked with a smack of the page, voice lilting up further on each word. "The fuck is _that_? What does that mean?" Pete's face shifts, contorting into something morose, defensive. Rolling his eyes, Pete trains his gaze back down onto his notebook, resuming his scrawling.

"They're lyrics. Just stick 'em in a song." He mumbled. Patrick scoffed, appalled. He set a hand on Pete's shoulder, nudging the notebook closer again insistently.

"No, you can't just give me that shit," Patrick hissed, "I want answers, Pete!"

"Well, you're not fucking getting any, so leave it and just put them in a fucking song!" Pete replied, venom dripping from his every word. He shoved Patrick away, waving him off, but Patrick only returned instantly.

"Pete, come on--" Patrick began, volume rising. He was cut off sharply, though, as the vicious sound of skin meeting skin cracked through the newly silent air. Patrick stumbled, feeling raw, ugly pain blossoming on his jaw. " _FUCK_!" Blindly, he fell back into the fridge door, hand flying to cover his cheek and dropping the notebook.

Pete had fucking punched him.

Patrick drew in a shuddering breath, staring in confused horror at Pete. His eyes misted up the longer the silence hung between them, tense as a guitar string that'd been tuned up too tight. Pete's whole frame shook, quivering in a black blob in Patrick's blurry vision.

"You fucking hit me...?" Patrick breathed, feeling his limbs start to burn with adrenaline. Pete didn't move a muscle, shoulders squared and jaw set. The skin on the knuckles on his right hand was broken open slightly, sending blood rolling in little rivulets down his fingers.

"I'm going to bed." Pete said, voice dangerously low. Patrick felt an ugly snarl tear its way through his throat as Pete began to stalk off, and he lunged away from the fridge, fingers grabbing for Pete. The older man whirled around, yelping as he was tackled to the floor.

Swiftly, Patrick landed a punch square on Pete's cheekbone, the quick-burning satisfaction of payback flooding through his nerves as he did. He quickly realized his mistake though, as Pete's eyes flared, the usual sweet brown suddenly ablaze with rage. In an instant, Pete had Patrick flipped so he was on his back and straddled him. With a headbutt, Pete managed to slam Patrick's head into the linoleum, wrapping both fists up in his collar. Patrick groaned, the taste of blood filling his mouth from his bitten tongue due to the impact. Pete's face hovered inches away from his, his breathing heavy as he glared right through Patrick.

"You want a fuckin' explanation that bad?" He asked brusquely, picking Patrick up and dropping him once again for emphasis. Patrick gasped, staring up at Pete with as much resentment as he could muster, despite his trembling lip and bleeding nose. Pete sucked in a harsh breath, his grip on Patrick's t-shirt going lax as he watched a tear roll unbidden down the side of Patrick's face. Shuddering on the exhale, Pete let his head fall, forehead bumping his fists.

"You're the composer," Pete ground out, not raising his head "You're the one who's got the insane talent, you can write a song in ten minutes. But you're never calm or happy anymore, you haven't been for months. You're always pissed, or depressed, or stressed out or drowning all the Folie bullshit in cheap fuckin' beer.

"I'm the overdosed. We both know why. You sing what I write, my "symphonies". We only want the one thing we can't have; to be respected for what we make without being called sellouts or whatever the fuck else."

"Pete--"

"Folie fucking flopped, and it's not any of our faults, but we're all-- you and I are fighting like it is. Like if I punch you in the jaw and pin you to the floor, it'll make all the fans fucking like it. But no, it won't help, yet here we are anyways and we're both bleeding even though we're meant to be in love and there's just no fucking point! Nobody's gonna remember us as anything but pop punk kids who crashed and burned, so why not write a song about it before we go on this stupid fucking hiatus and we both fucking leave each other!"

Pete trembled where he was curled over Patrick, anger dissolving and leaving behind only regret. Patrick still pulled ragged breaths beneath him, staring unblinkingly at the top of Pete's head. A long, pregnant pause fell over them, both of them frozen on the floor as the weight of Pete's words settled in like drying concrete. Fall Out Boy was on borrowed time, and the end of the tour meant the end of them.

It was then, Patrick realized, that they couldn't end like this. He couldn't let Pete let this go, couldn't let him just get up and brush this off as another fight under their belts that ended with water running red, bottle caps clinking against the counter and half-bitten-out apologies. Because if they never came back, then that would be all that was left of them. Of Pete and Patrick.

And he couldn't bear that.

He loved Pete too much for that.

Hesitantly, Patrick raised his hand, aiming to hold on to Pete's wrist. With a dry swallow, though, he set it on Pete's head instead, curling his calloused fingers into his hair as tenderly as he could. Pete froze, like a startled animal, but Patrick just added his other hand, scratching Pete's scalp and mussing his hair. His ministrations caused Pete's greasy hair to stick up at odd angles, and he would have laughed, given any other circumstance. All he could manage then was a weak quirk in his lip.

"What are you doing?" Pete croaked, muffled by Patrick's shirt. Patrick didn't say anything, gently brushing the older boy's bangs back and away from his face. Slowly, Pete raised his head, meeting blue eyes with broken brown. He sighed, closing his eyes against the feeling of Patrick's slow fingers carding through his hair, the tension draining from his shoulders.

"We need to stop doing this," Patrick murmured, "It's not healthy." Pete laughed humourlessly.

" _Thanks_ , Captain Obvious." He deadpanned.

"No problem," Patrick replied, just as dryly. He smoothed Pete's hair back again, framing his head in his hands. His heart jumped into his throat when Pete met his gaze again, eyes stormy and lost.

"We're supposed to be in love," Pete whispered hoarsely. The words shook as they left his mouth, and the lump in Patrick's throat threatened to choke him to death where he laid on the cold floor. He watched as Pete's face crumpled, a quiet sob parting his lips as he dropped his head again. "We're supposed to be in love."

"Hey, hey, we are," Patrick insisted, trying to lift Pete's face again. The other boy shook his head frantically, sitting back so he was farther out of Patrick's reach. Patrick followed, sitting up on his elbows with searching eyes.

"We aren't acting like it," Pete rasped, staring dully at the design on Patrick's shirt, "You're fucking bleeding. I punched you, and you punched me, and now we're both crying on the floor and that's not love! That's not what love is supposed to be!" Pete's words grew louder with each syllable, grew more and more wracked with emotion and they bounced violently off the walls, closing in on them both because Patrick knew Pete was right, at least in a way. What they were doing, in that very moment, wasn't love. He knew he shouldn't pry, but Patrick had to.

"What's love, then?" He asked softly, tentatively setting a hand on Pete's thigh. Pete scrubbed at his face with his sweater's sleeves, smearing his eyeliner.

"Love is," Pete began, staring up at the ceiling, "When we're curled up in your bunk at three in the morning because I'm too fucked up to sleep, and you sing because you don't mind. Love is when we're onstage and the fans fucking adore you and I kiss your neck and your voice gets a little stronger, if that's even possible. Love is when you smile at me across a room even when your head is screaming that we're doomed. This isn't love, this is war. I don't like the war. I want the war to be over."

A beat passed.

"I want _us_ back." Pete said.

Patrick sighed, heavy and long. Carefully, he sat up as much as he could and curled his arms around Pete's neck to hold himself steady. Pete's head tilted back, his eyes slipping closed, and Patrick gently pressed his lips to the hollow of his neck. He hid his face there shortly after, his eyelashes fluttering against Pete's collarbone. Pete didn't move, but the tension melted from his body and Patrick heard him swallow.

"We gotta stop doing this," Pete echoed Patrick's earlier words in a shaky breath. All Patrick could stand to do was nod against his neck, cool lips dragging against his skin again. He felt Pete shudder, a choked sob forcing its way out of the older boy, and curled in tighter. He tucked his legs in, crossed them, and settled in for the first quiet night in a while.

The notebook laid abandoned at his side, a bold, capitalized lyric from the centre of the page emblazoned behind the lids of Patrick's eyes.

_I only want what I can't have._

Patrick could only assume that this was what Pete had meant.

///////

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come find me:  
> Tumblr: @angelofthedamnlord  
> Instagram: @wonderifyourtherapistknows


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